


Faire la bise

by Vae



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, OT5, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 07:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3373124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For prompt 1:  It's Valentine's Day, and Zayn has a secret admirer. It's Harry. It's also Liam. Niall, too. Oh, and Louis. Or: the one where Zayn is everyone's boyfriend. </p>
<p>It's not Valentine's Day (yet), and the admiration is far from secret, but Zayn is definitely going to be everyone's boyfriend.</p>
<p>Zayn's an art student in the middle of a year in Paris, and encounters patisserie student Harry, bartender Niall, tour guide Louis and teacher Liam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faire la bise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [postscript](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postscript/gifts).



Paris in January is Paris at its least beautiful. Zayn knows that he's probably biased, because he's coming back to Paris after the Christmas break at home with his family and nothing's going to be as good as that, but there's still something about the grey dampness of the streets that sinks the cold into his bones and has him pulling the collar of his coat up against the wind. The architecture's still impressive, but the Seine is dull and muddy as he crosses the bridge.

Street lights are beginning to come on as the sun starts to sink below the tall buildings. The chain stores are still open, but most of the smaller business have closed and it's a surprise to see the light still shining from the window of the boulangerie that tucks into the ground floor of the building Zayn's been living in since September. He shoulders the door open before he can have second thoughts about his budget. It's the start of a new term, his loan's sitting comfortably promising in his bank account, and he missed lunch.

Instead of the short, perpetually-bad-tempered woman that Zayn's used to seeing behind the counter, he's greeted by a lanky boy with curly brown hair, a wide smile, and a truly appalling French accent.

"Bonjour," the boy says, putting the emphasis on the second syllable and drawing it out. "Kann ich Ihnen hilfen?"

Zayn blinks at the unexpected language, taking a moment to mentally change gears and dig into his memory for secondary school German lessons. "Uh... ich verstehe nicht?"

The boy blinks back at him then cracks up. "Shit, sorry, you know, like, when they teach you languages at school and they all get mixed up? You're English, right? I mean, your accent?"

"Yeah," Zayn says cautiously. "I'm over here for a year for university. You're, uh, not ..."

"I'm not Madame Louise," the boy agrees cheerfully. "And I'm not very good at French yet. Je m'appelle Harry and I still can't remember how to say can I help you, sorry. We've not got much left. Bread's all gone."

"Didn't think you'd still be open," Zayn says. "But the light was on."

"My fault," Harry says, still grinning. "I persuaded madame to let me close up and then I sort of got distracted but that's good, I haven't met anyone else English here and now I've met you."

"Um," Zayn says, fingers beginning to itch for his sketch pad and pencil. Something about the way Harry's head tilts and the way he holds himself sparks the urge to capture it, try to unravel how Harry manages to balance when nothing seems to be in line with anything else. Maybe behind the counter Harry's actually got his feet planted firmly apart and that's how he manages it. "Yeah. I was looking for something to eat, actually."

"Sweet or savoury?" Harry says promptly, straightening up so it looks like his shoulders are actually over his hips. It makes him look even taller. "Tell me your name and I'll find you something."

"Ask me in French," Zayn counters, and in the back of his head begins to wonder if Harry's actually flirting with him.

Harry wrinkles his nose, expressive face screwing up as he sticks his tongue out. "You're hard work. Uh, tu t'appelles comment?"

"Je m'appelle Zayn," Zayn says, before realising which version of the phrase Harry used. Definitely flirting. "So can I get something to eat now?"

"Zayn," Harry repeats, sounding satisfied. "Sweet enough, I bet. You're not a vegetarian, are you? I mean, that's okay, just I think most of what we've got left has got ham in it or if it hasn't it's not very good. I mean, like, it's good, but it's not _as_ good."

After a moment, Zayn works out that Harry's stopped talking. Harry speaks slower than most people Zayn knows, and definitely slower than anyone he's met in Paris, but something about the slow lilt of his voice is almost rhythmic. Sort of soothing. "I'm not a vegetarian."

"Excellent," Harry says, pulls a couple of boxes from under the counter, and slides things into them faster than Zayn can work out what they are. Then he charges Zayn considerably less than Zayn thinks he should be paying for however much food is in two boxes.

Zayn should probably protest, but there's something weirdly charming about Harry, and also his bank account's not so healthy that he's going to turn down cheap food when it's on offer. Maybe it's because it's the leftover stock at the end of the day. He takes the boxes, trying to balance them on one hand rather than risk squashing them by stuffing them into his rucksack. "Merci, au revoir."

"Wait," Harry says. "Come in earlier tomorrow and I'll get you some of the good stuff."

Zayn suppresses a snort of laughter, pretty sure that Harry's not actually offering the first thing that Zayn thinks of. "Can't, mate. Just a poor student."

Harry's face falls. "Friday, then," he says. "Come in on Friday. Everyone likes a treat on Friday."

"Friday," Zayn agrees, and feels warmer as he backs out into the cold afternoon to go around the corner to the door which lead to the stairs up to his flat.

***

"I'm eating," Zayn says, grabbing for the boxes and holding them up high enough for them to show on the webcam. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop on the bed, because that way he's looking up enough that it looks like he's looking at whoever's on Skype and not down a bit. It's not right when he's Skyping his mum and it looks like he's staring at her tits. "Promise, Mum. Even stopped by the boulangerie on the way back today."

Mum's face softens, and she smiles. "Listen to you, all French. What did you get, then?"

"Um..." Putting the boxes down again, Zayn lifts the top one into his lap, opening the lid. "It's, like, not as good as your cooking. Dunno, really, Harry sold me what's left, so... Looks like a quiche sort of thing?"

It didn't smell like a quiche sort of thing, though. It smells lightly spiced, tomatoes and onions sweet through the richness of flaky pastry. He picks it up carefully, holding it high enough for his mum to see. "Look, food."

Mum laughs. "Alright, love, I can see that. What did that place say about showing your art?"

Zayn wrinkles his nose and puts the pastry down again. "Haven't been yet. Stef said they're only open at night."

"Sounds like a strange sort of gallery," Mum says.

"It's more like a bar, I think?" Zayn shrugs. "Only a bar that sells art, too. I'll go tonight, promise."

"Go early," Mum says firmly. "You want to talk to whoever runs it before they get busy, don't you?"

"Yes, Mum," Zayn says, and laughs when she rolls her eyes. "I will.”

***

When Zayn finds the bar, it’s tucked down an alley. The lights are on, but the door’s closed and he can’t see anyone inside except for one blond guy rubbing a towel over the bar top. Ignoring the “Fermé” sign, Zayn knocks lightly on the glass of the door.

“On est pas encore ouvert,” the blond guy calls out without looking up.

Zayn shifts his portfolio under his arm, makes sure he’s still got a firm hold on the white pastry box, and knocks again. “Je suis à la recherche de Niall. Stef m'a envoyé.”

The guy stops and looks up, coming across to the door. “Zayn?”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Zayn nods, slipping inside as soon as the door’s open. A January evening is even colder than a January afternoon. “Niall?”

Niall nods. “You’re the English bloke, right?”

Much to Zayn’s relief, Niall’s English is just as fluent as Stef promised. Fluent, and with a strong Irish accent. “That’s me, yeah. He said you liked flan?”

“Aw, mate, you brought me flan?” Niall gives him a beaming smile. “Come and sit down, then, show me what you’ve got.”

Zayn follows Niall through to a table near the back of the bar, safely away from the draughts coming under the door, and nudges the box across the table towards Niall. “I mean, I brought my art, too, but, yeah.”

“Nothing wrong with a little bribe,” Niall says cheerfully, flipping the box open and taking an appreciative breath in. “Smells good, too.”

“The savoury pastries were good.” Zayn sits down, opening his portfolio folder. “This is, like, not everything, but Stef said you mostly show small pieces, so…”

Niall picks up a fork and starts on the flan, making loud pleased noises. “Only if they’re good. What sort of stuff do you do?”

_What I’m assigned_ , Zayn thinks with a hint of bitterness, but pushes that aside to flip over the first page. “Representative, mostly. City scenes.”

“No animals?” Niall looks up, licking crumbs of pastry from his lips. “Only we had this one bloke, seemed okay, and then the stuff he brought in to hang, it’s like, all these animals. Except they’re animals wearing clothes, weirdest shit I ever saw. Like, a hamster in a three piece suit and a hippo in a bikini.”

Zayn pauses for a moment, trying to get that image out of his mind. “A hamster?”

“Swear to God,” Niall says solemnly, then plucks a napkin out of the bottom of the flan box. “Hey, you said your name’s Zayn, right?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, still stuck on the idea of a hamster wearing a waistcoat. And, presumably, a shirt. “You need to see my student ID?”

Grinning, Niall pushes the napkin across the table. The white’s broken by black lines Zayn didn’t notice before, a number scrawled in the middle where it would have been hidden under the flan. “Just this says Harry.”

Zayn’s face heats as he stares at the number and name, remembering the warmth of Harry’s smile. “He’s, uh. He’s the guy who works at the boulangerie.”

“Yeah?” Niall brightens, getting out his phone and tapping in the number before Zayn realises what he’s doing. “Think he might like you.”

The phone starts making the steady, repeated tone that means a call’s being placed and Zayn reaches for it in a panic, his heartbeat kicking up. “I don’t even … don’t you want to see my art?”

“Yeah,” Niall says easily, pulling his phone out of Zayn’s reach. “But we can do this first. It’s okay, it’s on speaker.”

“How is that okay?” Zayn asks. “Look, I just met him today, he’s - “

“Answering the phone.” Niall grins as the tone stops.

“Bonjour?” Niall’s phone says, speaker transmitting the low, slow pitch of Harry’s voice. “Who’s this?”

Zayn buries his face in his hands. “Niall…”

“Yup,” Niall says. “It’s Niall. I’m here with Zayn, he gave me your number.”

There’s a moment of silence before Harry says, “Wait, hot guy Zayn who was in this afternoon?”

Niall cracks up as the heat in Zayn's cheeks burns stronger. "Yeah, that sounds like the one. You're Harry, right?" 

"That's me, "Harry says, voice sounding warm." Are you one of his mates, then?"

"Just met," Zayn manages. "Um. Hi." 

"Hi," Harry says. "Hi Niall that Zayn's just met. Was the pastry okay? I made it myself." 

Zayn mentally notes that. Harry, not just working in a boulangerie, actually a baker, too. "Yeah. Brilliant, actually. You made it?" 

"Yep," Harry says, sounding happier. "And the flan. You ate that, right? I mean, you found my number, so..." 

"I ate the flan," Niall says, before Zayn can think of a polite lie. "Listen, mate, can I keep your number? Our chef's well dodgy this week, looking for someone who can do us fresh bread and a cake or two." 

Business transaction, then. Zayn sits back and tries to tune out the conversation, wondering what he's got in his portfolio that might get Niall's attention as much as the flan had. Probably not the sketches of the Arc de Triomphe, with the rush of midday traffic swirling around it. Maybe the studies he'd done in the jardin du Luxembourg. 

"I'll tell him," Niall says, and ends the phone call looking satisfied. "Cheers, mate. Might have saved me a lot of trouble there. So, show us what you've got?" 

Zayn turns the folder towards Niall. "There'll be more. Or I can do specific stuff if you want." 

Niall shakes his head, turning the pages, pausing to chuckle at the pastel study of the pigeon that had followed Zayn around under the Eiffel tower. "Not what we're about, Zayn. I want stuff that's about you. How you see things. Something that says something, not pretty pictures, though, no offense, these are good. Stef wouldn't send you here for this, though. What else do you do?" 

Trying to ignore the way his heart plummets, Zayn bites his lip. "Bigger stuff, usually," he hedges. "Like, half a wall size."

"Like murals?" Niall tilts his head to the side. "Got any photos?" 

"Not... Really. Not murals, exactly." Zayn gives in and gets his phone out, unlocking it and flicking to the gallery before angling it so Niall can see. 

Niall grins wide, leaning in closer in a waft of sharp citrus. "Graffiti?" 

"Can't really show that here." Zayn slides his finger across the screen to scroll to the next photo. 

"Bollocks," Niall says easily. "Just need to rethink it a bit. Could you do that on a canvas?" 

Zayn looks up at the oil paintings mounted on the wall behind him, none of them more than 50 centimetres wide or tall. "Not that small." 

"So do them bigger," Niall says. "We'll just show less of them. Six, maybe?" 

"I haven't got six," Zayn says, before silently cursing himself. 

"You can, though, right?" Niall smiles. "If we schedule you in, like, six weeks?" 

“Yeah,” Zayn says instantly. “Why are you being so… no, no, forget it. Yeah, I can do that.”

Niall laughs. “I owe Stef a favour, but you’re good, too. Just not the stuff you’re showing in your portfolio. Look, do you need, like, special paper to draw on?”

“Not for rough stuff.” Zayn pulls his portfolio back towards him, turning to the back for the blank sheets of paper after the sheets of doodles. “You want me to do something now?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, drawing the word out. “Yeah. You said you met Harry today, right?”

Zayn nods. “Today. For, like, ten minutes.”

“Brilliant,” Niall says. “So, he’s coming over here tomorrow to talk about stuff for here and look at the kitchen, but I don’t know what he looks like. Can you sketch him right now?”

“I’m not great at people,” Zayn warns, already taking one of his sketching pencils from his inside jacket pocket. “He’s, uh… he’s tall. Nearly six foot, I guess. Kind of willowy, but broad shoulders - in proportion, like, I mean, if you put him next to Daniel Craig or someone he’d look skinny.” The best Zayn can manage quickly is closer to a cartoon than anything else, stylised, straight lines marking out the angles of Harry’s torso narrowing down to his hips. “Didn’t see his legs, he was behind a counter all the time, might have knock knees or be pigeon toed or something behind there.” The nose with a slight tilt at the tip, sharp jawline, pointed chin, wide mouth… “Green eyes, brown hair, you’re not gonna get that from a pencil sketch, so…” He adds Harry’s eyebrows, mostly straight, hairline that’s starting to recede slightly at the sides, and drops his pencil in frustration. “Can’t get his hair right. Curly, like, but not tight curls. Looks like it needs washing.”

Niall’s watching his hands intently, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good, that’s… like, way better than any of the stuff you’ve got in there. Got some life to it.”

Zayn hesitates. “You don’t like my stuff?”

Niall shrugs. “Seen a lot here. The stuff you’re showing, it’s safe, right? No risk to it. What I’m looking for, it’s there in your graffiti. It’s here.” He taps the paper. “Something with a bit of personality. You wanna stay on for a drink? I’m gonna open up in a few.”

Tucking his pencil away again, Zayn ducks his head, dull with the knowledge that Niall’s right about his portfolio. “Nah, I’m good. Need to get a start on prepping canvases if you want six in six weeks.”

Back in his flat, he throws the safe and boring portfolio onto the bed. The sketch of Harry slides out, and Zayn catches it before it can fall to the floor, frowning at it. That hair…

Settling on the floor, pad propped on his knees, Zayn pulls open a barely used box of charcoal, selects a fresh stick, and starts over. By the time he crawls up onto the bed and under his duvet, the page is littered with studies of Harry’s hair, Harry’s frown, and Niall’s easy, warm smile.

***  
Place Jean-Paul II - which Zayn still can’t help thinking of as “second” when he reads it instead of “deuxième” - is always full of tourists. He’s pretty sure that more tourists than worshippers visit Notre Dame, but the place is his most direct route to the metro station, and worth dealing with the crowd. Dodging the buskers, hawkers, and lost people staring at their iPhones, he still collides solidly with a man standing near the entrance to the crypte archéologique.

“Shit,” the man says, in a very English voice, and Zayn starts to wonder why he’s suddenly meeting every English speaker in Paris after months of hardly finding any of them. “I mean, sorry, excusez-moi.”

“Yeah, most people just say pardon, mate,” Zayn says, checking that his bag’s still securely under his arm. “Though, this is Paris. Mostly you get a glare.”

The man - young man, Zayn notices now he’s actually looking, about student age - laughs, and his eyes crinkle engagingly. “You’re English?”

Zayn nods. “Been over here a few months, though, so if you’re looking for something…?”

“Did I hear someone say they’re looking for something?” chirps in a new voice, and Zayn mentally facepalms for having been stupid enough to stand still long enough to get attention. “And in the accents of God’s own country, too. Yorkshireman meself, though that’s not a Donny accent, can’t be far off…”

“Bradford,” Zayn supplies, even knowing that he shouldn’t engage, and turns to view the new arrival. Around the same age as the boy he’d run into, but this boy’s shorter, looks somehow sharper, tousled light brown hair over a face that Zayn can’t describe as anything except ‘pretty’. 

“Nice one,” the Yorkshireman says, beaming an engaging smile. “I’m Louis from Doncaster, good to hear the sounds of home. And you, mate?”

“Liam,” says the bumped-into-boy. “From Wolverhampton.”

“Nice to meet you, Liam,” Louis says. “So, were you looking for something? ‘Cause I run walking tours round here, all English commentary, all questions answered.”

“I think Liam can probably find it on his own,” Zayn says firmly. “Right, Liam?”

Liam hesitates. “Actually, I was sort of hoping for something like that.”

Louis gives a smug smile. “See? What are you after, then? Tourist spots? The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, etcetera etcetera?”

“Well.” Zayn shifts his bag on his shoulder. “If you’re okay, I should get to the metro.”

“Or you could come too?” Liam says, turning big eyes on Zayn. They’re wide and dark and somehow soft, and harder to resist than Zayn expects from someone he’s only just met. “What’s your name?”

“Zayn,” Zayn says. “And thanks, but I’ve been to most of the touristy places.”

“Well, I can’t this afternoon, anyway,” Liam says. “I’ve got a class in about an hour.”

“How about at the weekend, then?” Louis says. “Zayn, right? You said most, not all. So where’s somewhere you haven’t been?”

Zayn hesitates.

“No charge,” Louis says immediately. “Wouldn’t charge a fellow Yorkshire lad. Call it a taster, if you like. Free sample. If you like it, we can try somewhere else. What’s it to be? Catacombs?”

Liam shudders. “Above ground.”

“Right,” Louis agrees, and looks back at Zayn. “C’mon, must be somewhere you’ve heard about but haven’t been.”

For free, it’s tempting. Free, and somewhere new, and someone who sounds like home. And Zayn has to admit to himself that they’re both easy on the eyes, too. “Père Lachaise?”

“Is that a church?” Liam asks. “I don’t really go to church.”

“Not a church,” Louis agrees with a beaming smile. “A graveyard. Resting place of the divine Sarah. Abelard and Heloise. Oscar Wilde. Jim Morrison.”

“A graveyard?” Liam echoes.

Zayn nods. “It’s massive, though. Lots of fancy monuments.” Lots of inspiration to draw.

Liam looks at Zayn with an expression of extreme earnestness. “And you want to go there?”

“Brilliant place,” Louis says. “Good call, Zayn. So, when are we going?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Yeah, I think… yeah. Let’s go there.”

“I haven’t got any classes on Sunday,” Liam says slowly.

Neither has Zayn, but his Sundays are usually spent mostly sleeping. With the prospect of company, though… “Are you a student, too?”

“Teacher,” Liam says, looking bashful. “English as a second language, it seemed like a good way to improve my French and be here and… and not have it cost much.”

“You don’t look old enough to be a teacher,” Louis says.

“You don’t look old enough to be a tour guide,” Zayn retorts.

Louis laughs. “Fair point, mate. So, Sunday afternoon, then?”

“Or morning,” Liam says, smiling at both of them. It’s like the sun’s decided to delay setting for another few minutes.

“Afternoon,” Zayn says firmly. “Three o’clock?”

“Three o’clock by the main entrance,” Louis agrees, and holds his hand out. “Shake on it.”

“Three o’clock,” Liam says, and shakes Louis’s hand, then Zayn’s. 

Zayn grins, and shakes Louis’s hand as well. “Is this a bargain, then?”

Liam looks confused. “Why would it be?”

Louis grins. “Because, young teacher Liam, this is how the French say goodbye.” Keeping hold of Zayn’s hand, Louis tugs hard enough to pull him just off balance, and then kisses Zayn on both cheeks. It’s familiar enough to Zayn by now that he automatically turns his head for each of the three kisses, but definitely unfamiliar because Louis’s lips actually touch his cheeks.

“Huh,” Liam says thoughtfully. “That looks like more fun.”

***

Zayn’s classes finish early on a Friday. By lunchtime, he’s heading out of the college buildings, bag hugged to his chest when he stands on the metro, swung back onto his hunched shoulders when he emerges into the bright, frosty afternoon. It’s not far from there to his building, and a smile tugs at Zayn’s lips as he pushes the door to the boulangerie open.

“Zayn!” Harry shouts happily. “You got me a job and then you didn’t call me!”

“Niall kept your number,” Zayn explains, grinning. “Do I still get my treat?”

“If I get your number,” Harry says, and grins back. “Might even use it.”

Zayn laughs, heart lifting. “Niall says you’ve actually got legs behind there, too.”

“Only two,” Harry says seriously, then tries to lift one up high enough for Zayn to see and grabs at the counter to stop himself falling over.

“I believe you,” Zayn says quickly. “Put your feet down. Both of them.”

Harry gives him a wide smile. “Phone number.”

Grinning, Zayn produces a pencil. “Something to write it on.”

Harry pulls out a length of receipt paper. “Voila!”

“Very French,” Zayn approves, chuckles, and writes his number down. “Hey, have you ever been out to the cemetery at Père Lachaise?”

“Not yet,” Harry says, head tipped to one side. “That’s where there’s that monument where people rub his groin for luck in love, isn’t it?”

Zayn pauses. “Louis didn’t mention that. He said Oscar Wilde, though.”

“Louis, is it?” Harry’s smile dims. “Are you going on a date?”

Zayn thinks back to the cheek kisses. “I don’t think so,” he says. “I mean, Liam’s going to be there too, I was going to ask if you wanted to come.”

“Come and rub a metal cock?” Harry grins again, wider, warmer. “Might do. When?”

“Sunday at three,” Zayn says promptly. “You’re not working, are you?”

Harry shakes his head, hair bouncing. “No classes, either. Sick. Is anyone else coming?”

“Thought I might ask Niall,” Zayn says. “Is that weird? I mean, is he sort of your boss?”

“Not like Madame Louise,” Harry says, and produces a box from under the counter. “I heard Niall’s got shit taste in art, though.”

Startled into laughter, Zayn rubs a hand around the back of his neck. “How would you know?”

“Because I bet your art’s brilliant,” Harry says firmly. “I saved you some of this morning’s focaccia, if you want it.”

“Love it,” Zayn says. “Thanks. Niall’s right about the art, though, and I should’ve checked out what sort of stuff they show there before taking anything along.”

“Can I see?” Harry widens his eyes in entreaty, reminding Zayn of Liam. “Please?”

“You mean you didn’t see when you went to talk to Niall about the kitchen and stuff?” Zayn reaches into his jeans pocket, pulling out a handful of change. 

“Your stuff,” Harry says. “Your art. You’ve seen mine…”

“Didn’t realise it was a you show me yours kind of thing,” Zayn teases. “I haven’t got much to show at the moment, really. I’ve got to start my new assignment today. And get started on the stuff Niall wants.” Which he wanted to do a lot more than the school assignment, but school was why he was in Paris, after all.

Harry gives Zayn his change and leans over the counter. “What’s the assignment?”

Zayn wrinkles his nose. “A landmark in Paris, but with an original view.”

“What sort of original?” Harry prompts.

“Dunno,” Zayn says. “Dunno which landmark, either.”

“Maybe you’ll get inspired on Sunday,” Harry says serenely. “Père Lachaise counts as a landmark, right?”

“Probably,” Zayn agrees, thinking. Jim Morrison. Oscar Wilde. Monuments and history, so much history, so many people. So many dead people - and Harry, and Louis, and Liam, and Niall, who were all very much alive. Life and death and… something. “You’ll come, then?”

Harry smiles, bright and sunny. “If you show me your art.”

Zayn shakes his head, laughs, and gets his phone out to show Harry the photos of his graffiti.

***

It’s after three when Zayn arrives at the Philippe Auguste metro station. He doesn’t mean to be late. He never means to be late. He’s even left plenty of time, but it’s nearly ten past when he takes the stairs two at a time, winding his way through weekend tourists and looking for familiar faces near the main entrance. They’re faces that he’s traced repeatedly over the last couple of days, Harry’s curls in charcoal, Niall’s eyes blue and bright in pastel, Louis’s grin sharp in pen and ink, Liam’s jaw carefully lined in soft, dark pencil, but he hasn’t been able to catch the vivid energy of any of them. When he arrives, breathless and flustered, Harry’s got his arm draped around Niall’s shoulders and Liam’s bent forwards slightly, paying close attention to whatever Louis’s saying. Louis’s got his shoulders pulled back, one hand raised to gesture towards the entrance, clearly well into a lecture.

Harry sees him first, breaking off whatever he’s saying. “There’s our Zayn! Told you he’d be here.”

“Overslept,” Zayn admits, grinning at the sight of Harry’s smile. “Then the metro was busier than I expected.”

“Always is on a weekend,” Niall says, reaching past Harry to clasp Zayn’s hand. 

Louis bounces up, Liam at his heels, and beams at all of them. “Got a couple more, have we? Excellent stuff, more the merrier. Where do we start?”

“Seurat,” Zayn says immediately, at the same time as Harry says “Gertrude Stein,” Niall says “Jim Morrison,” and Liam says “Abelard and Heloïse”.

Louis laughs. “Think we’ve got time for all of those. And Oscar Wilde, hope someone brought red lipstick.”

Harry starts patting his pockets, and Zayn spends a moment trying not to think about Harry wearing red lipstick. Or any of them, really. 

“How about,” Louis says slowly, looking around at all of them with a grin. “How about we start with Victor Noir? You might want to bring some flowers in.”

Something about that name sounds familiar to Zayn, though he can’t remember why. Still, there’s plenty of time. He nods, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Sounds good to me.”

“Never know what might happen,” Niall says cheerfully, following him across to the busy flower seller by the entrance. 

“Not yet,” Liam agrees, peering at a bunch of carnations. “Are these okay, do you think?”

“Get whatever your heart desires,” Harry says solemnly, tucking a gerbera behind his ear and turning to do the same for Louis, then holding one up to Zayn with an enquiring look.

Zayn laughs, heart light, and tilts his head for Harry to place the flower. “Never know,” he says. “We just might.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know you can't kiss Oscar Wilde's monument any more, I couldn't resist a bit of artistic license there. You can, however, still rub the groin of Victor Noir - superstition says that if you kiss his brass statue's lips, place a flower in his upturned hat, and rub his groin, it will bring you a blissful sex life.
> 
> Thanks to my team of cheerleaders, you're all WONDERFUL.


End file.
